


I Would Like To Rage

by CriticalRolemance (LiveLaughLoveLarry)



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Anger, Gen, Poetic, Poetry, Prose Poem, Rage
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-24
Updated: 2020-04-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23829679
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLaughLoveLarry/pseuds/CriticalRolemance
Summary: Rage can take many forms. Yasha's rage looks different from Grog's. It sounds different. It feels different.They are mirror images. This piece is a reflection on that contrast.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 25





	I Would Like To Rage

His rage is hot. It is molten iron, burning through his veins, lighting him up from the inside. It is a forest fire, destroying everything in its path. It is embers glowing behind his eyes, sparks flying every time he blinks.

Her rage is cold. It hardens her, fingers frozen to her sword, eyes like diamonds. When she looks at you, you can see your breath hang in the air. It is the last breath you will ever take.

His rage is loud. It is a battle cry with a weapon held aloft, a wolf’s howl as he scents blood on the wind. It is the roar of the crowd as fist meets flesh and bones are broken. It is a song, sung tunelessly, but with as much gusto as any bard.

Her rage is quiet. It is a wordless glare and a trembling hand that always strikes true. It is a whispered warning heard a second too late. It is a silent scream of agony and anguish. She has been screaming for as long as she can remember.

His rage is joyous. It is a celebration of power and might and vigor. It is a horse taking the bit between his teeth as he runs headlong into whatever is coming. It is the feeling of coming home. It is his birthright. 

Her rage is frightful. It is desperate and determined and deliberate. It is bared teeth and bloodshot eyes and base instinct. It is a cornered animal with nothing left to lose. She has learned that this world is ruled by eat or be eaten, and she is hungry.

His rage is certain. This is what he is, this is what he does, this is what he knows. He knows his skill, knows his strength, knows his friends at his back. Every punch, every blow, every swing of his weapon feels right. He has never doubted for a second.

Her rage is a question. She asks who she is, she asks why she is here, she asks where she is going. She hears no answer. She asks if anyone is there. She waits for a future that she does not entirely believe in, that she doesn’t think she deserves. She hopes she is doing the right thing. She doubts she is.

His rage is thunderous. It is low and dark, its intensity building with each passing moment. It is a wave rolling through his enemies, setting them shaking -- as well they might. It waits for the right reason to wake, but when it does, there is no stopping it. 

Her rage is lightning. It flashes hot and bright and short, then vanishes -- or seems to. It lingers beneath the surface, her blood burning, fingers tingling, heart stuttering. It hides within the clouds, but the clouds are nearly constant. Her rare, genuine smile is like seeing the Horisal sun.

His rage is for glory. It is the pride of all he has accomplished, all he knows he is capable of. It brings him prestige, esteem, gifts, feasts, maidens. It earns him stories and songs that will be told over and over until they are more legend than truth.

Her rage is for survival. It is the practicality of doing what she must do, the only thing she can do. It brings her nightmares and regrets and the hollow stillness of tomorrow morning. It earns her memories that she plays over and over, knowing she could do nothing differently.

He would like to rage. He loves nothing better. He is most himself when he is lost in the fury, in the blood and the froth and the motion, his favourite, brutal dance.

She would like to find peace. She loves flowers and music and quiet moments with friends. The rage is a familiar song, but it brings her no pleasure. 

She rages anyways.


End file.
